


The Effort of Being Okay

by szm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szm/pseuds/szm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is gone, and John is okay. Really. So is Greg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Effort of Being Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of series two

First there was the funeral and John just focused on getting through that, he expected it to be small but the church was packed. Reporters, and Angelo, some members of the Homeless Network that John recognised, Sebastian Wilkes, Dimmock, Lestrade, and more that John couldn’t put names to. He didn’t see Mycroft but he must have been there. John sat with Mrs Hudson and kept his head down. He tried not to hear the comments, to let them wash over him.

_”Such an amazing mind… whatever else he was,”_

_“Always a little… strange,”_

_“All I know is he never did wrong by me…”_

_“Such a waste,”_

He felt his hand close into a fist by his side, but he kept his head down and kept quiet. Sherlock would have hated this. Nearly as much as John hated it right now; in a way that almost made it easier to bear. 

Lestrade tried to catch John’s eye after the service. But John kept his head down and made his excuses to Mrs Hudson. She offered to make tea back at Baker St. But John couldn’t. Not yet, he couldn’t go back there. His excuse was weak and so was Mrs Hudson’s smile.

**

He had a flat, nicer than the bedsit he’d been in before Sherlock. Now he had a job and savings and Sherlock had left him everything in his bank accounts. It wasn’t home, but it was a place to sleep. Grey and dull, the way the world was without the chase, and the fight, and the _danger_. Like leaving the army all over again, the loss of Sherlock somehow worse than the limp had ever been. More scarring than a bullet wound to the shoulder. But John kept moving on, he had markers in time and he moved slowly from one to another. Shifts at the surgery, tea with Mrs Hudson on a Wednesday morning, at a coffee shop halfway between Baker St and John’s flat. Regular appointments with the therapist, Friday night a phone call to Harry, or she’d call him. They’d reassure each other that they were fine, really. Harry wasn’t drinking, and John was moving on, and they would meet up one day this week. 

Or maybe the next. 

Soon anyway. 

John couldn’t help but wonder if his parents had meant to raise such liars.

Mycroft tried to ring once or twice but John ignored him. Occasionally he’d catch a CCTV turn to follow him, but he ignored that too. He saw more shiny, black, sedans than was probably usual. But what the hell was _usual_ anyway. 

He went to Barts once. Nearly a month after Sherlock had died. Molly was as lovely and awkward as ever. John felt like he was making her nervous for some reason. He went up onto the roof, he stood on the edge. It was strange, strange that he could come here and do this. But he couldn’t go to 221b, he could be where Sherlock had died but being where Sherlock had lived was far too difficult.

It was a few days after that when Lestrade visited. He was standing outside John’s door when he got back from work. He looked tired, washed out; John felt a pang of sympathy.

“You look terrible,” he said in way of greeting.

“Thanks,” replied Lestrade with a lopsided grin. “You’re an oil painting, mate.” 

John felt himself smile, for the first time in two months it felt real. Not something forced to make other people feel better. He opened the door and let Greg in. 

“You’re avoiding me,” said Greg, his voice gently accusing. “I was considering just breaking in.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Cuppa?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Greg easily. He followed John into the tiny kitchen and propped himself up against the counter. They stood in companionable silence for a while. It was fucking amazing to be with someone who wasn’t asking if he was okay with that tone that meant they weren’t going to believe him if he said yes. He felt Greg watching him, the gaze had weight. Greg was assessing, cataloguing. Not deducing, but close enough to feel familiar. It was odd how much he missed Sherlock’s heavy stare. He passed Greg his mug and they stood side by side, leaning against the counter, drinking tea.

Eventually Greg broke the peace. “I’m on suspension right now,” he said carefully.

“I know,” John replied. “How is the investigation going?”

Greg shrugged. “I think mostly they’re just upset they can’t find anything wrong. I was pretty anal on cases that Sherlock was involved in, I backed up all the evidence independently, and there should be odes written to the perfection of the paperwork. I didn’t want any convictions to fall through. None of the appeals have stood up so far. I should be back to work soon.”

“Good,” said John, and he meant it. Greg was the best of the police force. John really didn’t have any time for any of the others. He bitterly regretted any time he’d defended them to Sherlock

Greg chuckled without humour. “The Chief Superintendent…”

“Twat,” interrupted John under his breath.

Greg just smirked. “Yeah him. He told me that I could never expect a promotion after all this. But I gave it some thought and I decided - I don’t give a shit. I was right, Sherlock was right. A lot of cases were closed because of him, people were saved.”

John just nodded. Sherlock was right, it felt good to hear that out loud. Sherlock was _real_.

Greg was the one to break the silence again. “You understand that for all intents and purposes I am not a police officer right now?”

“Yes, Greg what..?” replied John, unsure of what Greg was trying to say.

“Give me your gun,” said Greg bluntly.

“What the hell?” asked John, suddenly and disproportionately angry.

“I’ll give it you back, but John, you shouldn’t have a gun on hand,” said Greg. And there it was the look John hated. The one he saw on everyone’s face every day. As if everyone was just waiting for him to fall apart.

“No,” said John coldly. He was trapped, he couldn’t get out of the tiny kitchen without walking right past Lestrade who had stood up straight, putting his empty mug down on the counter top.

“Yes, I’m not leaving until you do,” he said with finality. 

“Greg if you get caught with it, you’ll get fired, even arrested,” said John.

“I knew I was risking my job every time I called Sherlock in. Every time I advised another officer to work with him. What makes you think I’d do less for you?” Greg looked… like he did when he was looking at Sherlock sometimes. The ‘I know you hate this but it’s for your own good’ look. Soft eyes and open body language, but absolutely unmoveable. John stayed stubbornly quiet and Greg continued. “Molly rang me. You were on the rooftop of Barts for two hours, John. I lost Sherlock, I nearly lost my job, you are not allowed to…” Greg trailed off.

John’s anger trailed off too. “I’m okay,” he said quietly.

“John…” started Greg.

“No,” interrupted John. “I am. The effort of being okay is nearly killing me but I’m doing it. I get up, I go to work, I visit with Mrs Hudson. I smile and I go to therapy sessions. And _I can’t do any more_ ,” he said willing Greg to understand.

“John, you don’t have to be okay,” said Greg. “We’ll take care of you if you’re not.” 

Greg pulled him into a hug and John tensed up at first. But Greg was warm and smelt like strange washing powder and clean sweat, and absolutely like himself. And it was okay if John wasn’t okay, just for a minute. He relaxed and hugged Greg back. It went on for longer than was proper but it didn’t matter. No-one was going to judge him for needing this.

Greg stayed on the sofa that night, he left with John’s gun in the morning. 

**

Jamie Halford is just a kid. Greg remembered his Aunt once telling him that she knew she was getting old when the policemen started to look like they hadn’t left school yet. Greg knew Halford was 22, but right now curled up in a ball on the floor crying messily, he looked like a kid. A kid who had beaten his pregnant girlfriend to death because she’d told him the baby wasn’t his (she’d been lying, according to the DNA. At some point someone is going to have to tell Halford that.). Greg felt old. Sometimes there was a sense of achievement with his job, catching the bad guy, solving the puzzle, saving people, but there was nothing like that here. It was all just too tragic for words.

Greg bent down and cupped the kids elbow. “Come on, let’s go.” The kid looked up with red rimmed eyes. Hopelessness and anger pouring out of them, and Greg sees it. The moment all that turns to unfocused, undirected _hate_ , and Greg just happens to be the only one in arm’s length when it does.

 

**

It wasn’t like John saw Greg every day, or even every week. It wasn’t like Greg was checking up on him, maybe that’s what made Greg easier to talk to. About Sherlock, but about everything else too. John’s therapist talked about ‘safe spaces’ and ‘listening without judgement’ but it was only when he was around Greg that John felt like he had any idea what those phrases were supposed to mean.

Meeting up at the pub had been Greg’s idea, and Greg had invited Mike Stamford. He’d invited Molly too but she’d stuttered her apologies and turned it down. Sherlock’s death seemed to have sent her further into her shell. John could sympathise so he mostly left her alone. Greg hadn’t asked anyone else but John got the feeling that was only because there really wasn’t anyone else they both knew (apart from people like Anderson and Donovan, but it’s not like anyone thought it was a good idea to put either of them into a room with John). Sometimes he felt like Greg knew him better than anyone who wasn’t Sherlock then something like this would crop up and he’d realise how little their lives actually crossed over.

Greg had text to say he’d be late so John was stuck with Mike.

That was unfair. Mike was a good bloke, and he and John had known each other a long time. John had tried to make small talk, about Mike’s work and his family, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care about it. As for Mike the sheer effort of not talking about Sherlock was clearing paining him. John knew what he wanted to ask, he wanted to ask if John had been in on it. If he’d known all along that Sherlock was a fake. Which was stupid. Mike had known Sherlock, it was _obvious_ he wasn’t.

With a start John realised this was what Sherlock must have felt like. Sitting on the outside watching as everyone else spectacularly failed to get it.

“John?” asked Mike. It was clear he’d been talking for a while.

“Sorry,” said John, faking a smile. “Must have zoned out a bit.”

Mike smiled back nervously. “I’m going to get off home, want to share the cab?”

“No, you go, I’m going to have another. I’ll see if Greg turns up,” said John, letting Mike off the hook. It was the least he could do. Mike was a friend and it wasn’t like John had many of those to spare. Mike left with a wave and John made his way to the bar. He’d have another half and walk home, maybe the walk would do him some good. He’d just caught the barman’s eye when he heard Greg’s voice calling his name, he turned to look and the barman moved on to the next customer, typical.

Greg wove through the people between him and John. He was favouring one side, and winced when a girl accidentally backed into him. “Hey John,” he said as he came level with John. “Where’s Stamford?”

“Did you even go to hospital?” asked John by way of greeting.

Greg frowned. “Yes, it’s fine. I just bruised my ribs. They gave me painkillers and sent me on my way.”

John glared and crossed his arms across his chest. “Bruised ribs? Really?”

Greg looked stubborn for a split second then gave out an easy, and blatantly false if you knew where to look, smile. “Okay, okay, fractured ribs. But they really did give me the drugs and let me go.”

“Did they _want_ to let you go?” asked John suspiciously.

Greg coughed then flinched as pain shot up from him fractured ribs.

“Right, come on. Let’s get you home,” said John steering Greg towards the door.

They managed to get a taxi fairly quickly, and John made Greg give his address. They travelled more or less in silence but it was better being quiet with Greg than trying to think of things to talk about with Mike. It turned out that Greg’s house wasn’t all that far from where John was living now. 

Greg lived in a modest two bedroom house. On his own now that his wife had moved in with the PE teacher. Greg winced as he dug his keys out of his trouser pocket, John felt himself wince in sympathy. He broke a couple of ribs once, it made even breathing painful. Once they were inside Greg collapsed on the sofa. He was worse to deal with than Sherlock had been when injured. He was the sort of person who metaphorically curled up into a ball and waited for the pain to stop. Sherlock wanted John to look at his injuries, and often photograph them as well. He’d had a big book of various injuries he (and sometimes John) had sustained, with careful notes about how long each injury took to heal and how it had been acquired.

John chuckled to himself.

“What?” asked Greg smiling back.

John gestured to Greg’s side. “Just thinking, this would probably have been one for ‘the big book of bruises.”

“Again,” said Greg, shifting a little to try and get comfortable. “What?”

John shook his head. “Sherlock had photos of all the bruises he got.”

Greg grinned. “I thought he called that his ‘contusions catalogue’?”

John perched on the edge of the sofa next to Greg, his smile was still in place but it was wearing a little thin and sad around the edges. “He did. I liked ‘big book of bruises’ better.”

Greg reached over and squeezed John’s hand. “Me too.”

John felt the warmth from Greg’s hand seep into his. He recognised that they both held on a beat too long. “Right then, shirt off,” said John as he pulled his hand away.

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t you have brought me a drink first?” he asked. John just stared at him and didn’t move. “Honestly, John. They checked me over at the hospital. They were proper Doctors and everything.”

John waited him out and raised an eyebrow.

Greg sighed, shrugged off his jacket and started to undo the shirt. “Did you learn the ‘you’re an idiot’ look from Sherlock?”

“Had it directed my way often enough,” said John with a self-deprecating shrug.

He sat next to Greg on the sofa, and tutted at the bruising that was already starting to come out. “Jesus, Greg. What did you do?”

Greg shook his head. “This kid killed his girlfriend, when we confronted him he confessed and starting sobbing, dropped to the floor. I went to help him up. Which was stupid and I know better, Donovan already reminded me of that. He knocked me over, managed to get the boot in before Donovan and Fielding could pull him off.”

John gently felt the area around the bruising. “Breathe in for me,” he asked and Greg compiled. “Why do I feel like there’s more to that story?”

Greg recoiled as John pressed on a particularly sensitive spot and John muttered ‘sorry’ under his breath. “Because you’re a writer and you always think there’s more to the story. Overdeveloped sense of the dramatic.”

“I’m a blogger,” corrected John. “Or I was. Nothing much to blog about now. How many fractured ribs?”

“Three,” said Greg.

John looked up to see Greg watching his hands. “You should have stayed in at least overnight,” he said with a frown.

Greg sighed. “I’m fine, they gave me painkillers. Besides you were waiting for me.”

Greg smiled and John felt himself blush. He asked Greg what painkillers he was on and Greg pulled the packet out of his jacket pocket. Co-dydramol noted John with approval.

“Right,” said John. “Take these regularly. Don’t wait until it really hurts, trust me you won’t like that. When’s your next dose due?”

Greg was still smiling as he glanced over John’s head at the clock on the wall. “In about an hour. You know, they went over this at the hospital, doc.”

“Yeah well,” said John. “Just making sure. I should get off.”

Greg’s smile slipped. “You could stay for a bit. If you wanted. We could watch a DVD or something...?”

John thought about going back to the flat. Staying here did sound better, and he didn’t have to be at work tomorrow. “Why not,” he said.

Greg’s smile came back; that alone was enough to make John glad he’d stayed.

Greg went upstairs to get changed. No point struggling to put the shirt back on. John was left to pick a DVD. He looked round Greg’s front room. Tidy, but not obsessively so. Greg had a lot more stuff than John, but then John was used to moving around. No real roots of any kind. Greg had moved in here when he’d first got married, and that had been nearly fifteen years ago. It was hard for John to imagine now, that amount of time in one place.

When Greg came back he was wearing an old t-shirt and loose jogging bottoms, both in a well-washed light grey. It managed to somehow make him look older and younger at the same time. It was always strange the rare times John saw him out of his work suits. Like a knight without his armour, definitely Greg and not Lestrade. He shook off the overly dramatic thought and held up the DVD in his hand for Greg to see.

Greg groaned. “Would you believe it was the wife’s?”

“Right up until you said ‘Would you believe’, yeah,” replied John.

“It’s a good film,” said Greg defensively. He frowned a little at John. “Actually, you look a bit like one of the actors…”

John quickly put it back on the self. “How about _V for Vendetta_?” he asked.

“Works for me,” said Greg holding his hand out for the box.

“Nope,” said John moving over to the TV. “You get settled, I’ll get this started then get you some water for your pills.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Greg cheekily, pulling off a really bad salute before carefully settling into the sofa.

John put the DVD on, got the water, and settled next to Greg on the sofa. It was half way through the film when John realised he’d sat right next to Greg, rather than the other end of the sofa or even one of the armchairs. But Greg didn’t seem to mind and he was warm and John really couldn’t bring himself to care. By the time the film had finished John was nearly half asleep.

“Hey,” said Greg quietly. “Come on you, time to move.”

John nodded. “Okay, I’m going.”

“You could stay,” said Greg.

John turned to look at him. The flickering of the TV screen was the main light source in the room. It danced along the edges of Greg’s face, both softening and drawing attention to his features. It made his eyes look very dark.

“Your sofa is pretty comfortable,” said John. He found himself looking straight into those dark eyes and finding something in them he recognised.

Greg shook his head. “I have a guest room but… You could stay with me. If you wanted. Just to sleep, I’m not up to much right now anyway with busted ribs. I just… it’s hard to sleep alone…”

John pressed his lips to Greg’s. It was chaste and John felt dry lips beneath his own, softer than he would have expected. Not that he was expecting anything, that would imply forethought and there had been none. Greg just looked like someone who very much needed John to kiss them. Someone John very much wanted to kiss.

John drew back a little to say “Yes.”  
**

John staying at Greg’s started as a thing that happened rarely. Something that ,to be honest ,was as awkward as it was welcome. It was hard at first not to compare each other with Sherlock, after all without Sherlock they never would have met.

 

The thing was, in a way, Sherlock was actually easy to have had as a friend. He was demanding and had little use for any kind of boundaries, but if you didn’t let that scare you off in the first place it made everything simpler. Sherlock would tell you what he wanted, and expect that you’d do the same. It cut out all the awkward dancing around that you had to do as you negotiated a place in someone else’s life.

 

Greg was more than a friend now, but then hadn’t Sherlock been? If John was honest with himself, which apparently according to his therapist he should be, Sherlock had been the most important person he’d ever met. John had never just clicked with anyone the way he’d clicked with Sherlock.

 

Greg had taken longer to understand, more ‘legwork’, but now he was as much a part of John’s life as Sherlock has been. As Sherlock still _was_ , dead or not. Greg was easy to talk to, and even easier just to be with. Greg got it, whatever ‘it’ was. 

 

One night became once a week, soon John was staying over at Greg’s more often than he was at his flat. He was still waiting for it to start to feel strange. It had been awkward at first but it always felt like it was something worth the being awkward for. John was now regularly sleeping with a man, which was not something he’d done before. Surely that shouldn’t be this easy to accept? Wasn’t he supposed to be in some blind panic or something?

 

John shifted the plastic shopping bag from one hand to the other (he seemed destined to share living spaces with people who were incapable of remembering to buy milk), so he could get his key out of his pocket. He slid it into the lock and stared at it. _His_ key, his key to _Greg’s_ house. He was going to go in and hang his coat on the hook by the door that he always hung it on. He’d put the shopping away, maybe make a cup of tea in his mug, which was here because he was hardly ever at his own place. It wasn’t actually panic but it was a heavy weight low in his stomach, because he knew what he’d call this if Greg was a woman.

 

John went in, made the tea, and rang his sister because it was Friday afternoon. It rang for a long while but eventually Harry answered.

 

“Huh, Erm… Hello.”

 

“Hi,” said John taking the handset to the sofa and sitting down. “Did I wake you?”

 

“Hey, Jonny. Yeah, was up all last night. Work thing. How are you?” she asked her voice thick with sleep.

 

“I think I might have a boyfriend,” John blurted out.

 

“Really?” asked Harry. “Can I meet him?”

 

“No,” said John. “We agreed, you are not allowed to meet anyone I’m dating ever again.”

 

John could imagine her rolling her eyes at him. “Honestly, it was one time. I was 18. Besides, I’m hardly likely to steal your _boy_ friend am I?”

 

John chuckled and they pretended that was the reason John didn’t want to introduce her to Greg. They chatted for a few minutes, swapping work stories and a bit of information about mutual acquaintances.

 

Then John said softly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Harry. I think I might have accidentally moved in.”

 

Harry managed to keep up with the sudden change in topic. “Does he make you happy?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” said John.

 

“Then go with it, little brother. And stop worrying.”

 

**

 

John did go to his flat some of the time. And one of those times he found the letter. John can’t imagine that anyone is ever happy to receive an unexpected letter from the police. Even if it is a job offer. At first he’s just confused, not angry yet because he hasn’t made the obvious connection. So after his morning shift at the surgery he heads over to see Greg, to find out what’s going on. He expected that walking into Greg’s office would give him the same kick in the stomach feeling he always got when he went somewhere he’d been with Sherlock. Angelo’s was like that. John didn’t think he’d ever eat there again, no matter that Angelo had made it clear that Sherlock’s ‘free food’ privilege now extended to John. But somehow he didn’t feel like that at Scotland Yard, maybe because this was more Greg’s place than Sherlock’s. It had always felt like Sherlock was here on Greg’s indulgence, even if they were working with somebody else.

 

Greg was sat at his desk tapping at the computer, eating the sorriest looking excuse for a sandwich that John had ever seen. He didn’t look up as John walked in, just waved at his desk with the sandwich.

 

“If you can find a clear bit to put them on…” he said distractedly.

 

“Skipping lunch again?” asked John, smiling for no real reason.

 

Greg looked up and smiled back when he realised who it was. “I have lunch,” he said holding up his soggy sandwich as proof. John raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t answer. Greg just chuckled. “So to what do I owe this pleasure? Or are you just checking up on me?”

 

“Why on earth would you need checking up on?” asked John not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I got this letter today. It says my application to become a ‘medical consultant’ for the Metropolitan police has been accepted. I don’t remember making an application, Greg.”

 

Greg had the grace to look a little bit uncomfortable. “I did, but I was going to tell you. By rights I should have had at least another month before personnel sorted all that out. I suppose he…” Greg trailed off. “I made the application nearly three months ago, before the other night when… I hurt my ribs. Before we started this.” He waved his hand between them to indicate whatever it was that they were.

 

John shook his head. “I have a job, Greg.” He didn’t need this, he didn’t need Greg to do him favours, he’d thought that Greg understood that.

 

Greg winced. “I know that. Look, just sit down will you?” John thought about refusing for a second but then settled into the chair opposite the desk. Greg threw what was left of the sandwich in the bin and looked at John. “It’s only a part-time thing. It means I can call you in if I think you would help. It’s all above board and cleared through the Superintendent, no questions about it. And it’s not just for you, I… I want to hear what you think about quite a lot of cases it turns out.”

 

John tipped his head slightly to one side. “I’m not Sherlock.”

 

Greg glared. “For God’s sake, John. I know that.”

 

John thought about it for a minute, and then shook his head. “How did you even manage this? I once gave the Chief Superintendent a bloody nose. I can’t see him agreeing to this in my lifetime.”

 

Greg didn’t look shifty very often, so when he did it was really obvious. “I… went over his head.”

 

All of a sudden it clicked. Over the head of the Chief Superintendent and all the paperwork had been fast tracked. “Tell me,” said John suddenly very serious. “That this has nothing to do with Mycroft.”

 

Greg didn’t answer and John shook his head getting up to leave. 

 

“John,” called Greg standing up as well. “Please think about it.”

 

John turned back to Greg. “No, I don’t want anything from him.”

 

“This isn’t from Mycroft, it’s from me. I asked Mycroft for something, now I’m asking you for something. The two things don’t have to be connected if you don’t let them be, just think about it.”

 

John left without saying a word. As he walked out of the building his mobile rang, withheld number. John ignored it, he didn’t look up to see if the cameras turned.

 

**

Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to screw something up that badly. Unless you counted the last few years of his marriage or the early days when he’d first met Sherlock. He resisted the urge to bang his head on the desk. He knew that John blamed Mycroft in some way for what had happened to Sherlock, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out why. It seemed unusually cruel, Mycroft had after all lost his brother in all this. No matter how strange that relationship was at times.

 

Greg managed to be professional for the rest of the day. Not succumbing to the urge to bite anyone’s head off. No matter how much paperwork they foisted on him. As he was leaving, what felt like days later, he got a text from John.

 

**I can’t take the job, sorry Greg.**

 

At least he was still Greg and not ‘Lestrade’. He texted back, **I’m sorry too.** He wondered if he’d still see John, would he still be coming round to the house? He found himself wishing that nothing would change. This pattern he’d fallen into with John was as much a comfort to him as he hoped it was to John.

 

**That sandwich was terrible. I’ll stand you a pub meal at the Crown, if you like?**

 

Greg felt himself flooded with relief. He knew he had some flavour of silly grin plastered across his face as he text back, **Meet you there.**

 

**

 

Later that night Greg lay in bed watching John’s face in the low light that filtered through the curtain from the streetlight outside. John wasn’t quite asleep yet, but his face had relaxed and some of the lines had smoothed out.

 

“Stop staring at me. Trying to sleep,” he mumbled.

 

Greg shifted a little so more of him was in contact with more of John. John sighed and wrapped his arms around Greg.

 

“Have you always been such a cuddler?” John asked his breath soft on the side of Greg’s face

 

“You started it, I was just moving a bit,” countered Greg, relaxing further into John’s hold.

 

They lay there for a while not really sleeping, but not really awake either.

 

“How disturbed are you going to be if I say I miss Sherlock?” asked John eventually.

 

“You’re allowed to miss him, John,” replied Greg. “I miss him too.”

 

John sighed “I sometimes think he warped the whole world by just existing… “

 

“And now it doesn’t fit right anymore,” agreed Greg.

 

Greg listened to John’s breathing as he slipped into sleep.

 

**

 

“So, I’m at a crime scene,” started Greg when John answered his phone.

 

“Really, Detective Inspector? Fancy that,” replied John not trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

 

“I’m going to ignore that,” said Greg feeling the smile appear on his face. “This guy, who absolutely no-one has a bad word for, not even the ex-girlfriend, got himself shot in a locked room. No gun in the room, any thoughts?”

 

“Greg,” said John carefully, and Greg could hear the warning in his tone.

 

“I promise not to let the yard pay you for your time, Doctor,” he snapped back. “But I just… god John, he really would have loved this one.”

 

No need to say who ‘he’ was, and Greg knew John understood. Greg was fighting the urge to insult Anderson’s intelligence and aggravate Sally just to fill the space where Sherlock should be.

 

“Do you want me to take a look?” asked John after a pause.

 

“What about Mycroft?” asked Greg, because he didn’t understand why John was so insistent that he didn’t want anything to do with Mycroft but he had promised to respect it.

 

“Sod Mycroft,” said John with feeling.

**

John ducked out of the surgery making vague noises about a family emergency and got a taxi he couldn’t really afford to the address Greg had given him. It gave him such a sense of deja-vu that he felt dizzy for a second. He walked towards the building with its criss-crossing police tape, and the flashing lights, and familiar people milling about apparently at cross purposes. John added the scene to the long list of things he supposed he shouldn’t really miss but did anyway. Crime scenes, right up there with war zones. He did his best to make sure his smile didn’t show on his face. Someone in that building was dead after all.

 

Greg came out of the building looking every inch the Detective Inspector, it was a good look on him. John lost the fight against his smile and quickened his pace a little. He didn’t notice he was being watched from the shadows across the road.

 

Greg showed him in and they donned the oh-so-attractive scene of crime gear. They climbed the stairs to the second story room the body had been found in. It was a nice building in a really good part of town. Greg told John about the victim and they walked up. Reggie Butler, nice guy, bit of a maths whiz. 32 years old, this was his house but his Mother and sister lived here too. Recently split up from his girlfriend but they were apparently still on good terms.

 

John wondered if Greg was talking to try and fill up the space of the absent third person. It wasn’t working. John could almost feel the empty air just in front and to one side of him where Sherlock should be.

 

Reggie was on the floor in the middle of the room. The room had two large windows, in front of the first one was a desk. It had a lamp on it and a laptop which was closed and shoved under some papers. Next to the laptop was a pad full of sums with half of them scribbled out.

 

John knelt next to Reggie and gave the body a cursory examination. He took a good look at the entry wound.

 

“No exit wound, bullet’s still inside,” he said, mostly to himself but Greg nodded anyway.

 

They looked around for a while, but John had to admit he was as stumped as Greg. “The only thing is if someone shot him from a distance through the window. But the angle looks wrong to me,” he said to Greg on the way down.

 

“And the windows were both closed when he was found,” agreed Greg.

 

John smiled wistfully. “You were right; he would have loved this one.”

 

They got back out onto the street to find Anderson arguing with what looked to be a homeless man. He had a huge, filthy, coat on and his face was mostly made up of beard.

 

“You’re going to have to move on, it’s a crime scene!” shouted Anderson in the special talking to idiots voice annoying people use. As Greg and John got closer the man tried to push past Anderson and Anderson shoved him. John moved forward to catch the man who seemed unsteady on his feet, but Greg beat him to it.

 

“Careful,” Greg said to the man while looking daggers at Anderson. “Anderson, go and find something else to do okay.

 

Anderson made a sound of derision in the back of his throat but thankfully left.

 

The man patted Greg’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.

 

“Are you okay?” asked John.

 

“Yes, yes,” said the man pulling himself somewhat straight and limping away from them. “Gave a statement to the lady policeman. Can I go?” he asked in a thick east European accent.

 

“Sure,” said Greg.

 

John briefly wondered where the man would go. There was something about him that John couldn’t quite place. Like maybe he’d seen him before.

 

“Wanna abuse my position and get a uniform to drive us home?” asked Greg as he turned to face John.

 

“Sure,” replied John putting the strange man out of his head for now.

 

**

 

No-one saw the homeless man walking away. They didn’t see how his back straightened or his gait changed as he turned the corner onto the next street. They didn’t see him pull off the fake beard he was wearing. They certainly didn’t see that he had the keys he’d pick pocketed from the Detective Inspector’s coat in his right hand.

 

But then again people so often see without observing.

**

They got to the front door and Greg couldn’t find his keys.

 

“They were in my pocket, I know they were!” he said indignantly.

 

John just smirked at him and unlocked Greg’s door with his own key and held it open, making a big sweeping ‘after you’ gesture with one arm. Greg walked in not stopping to take off his coat.

 

And there stood in the middle of his lounge was a ghost. Sherlock Holmes.

 

Greg tried but he couldn’t get his mouth to work. It gaped open uselessly. Greg could hear the sound of John closing the door and hanging up his coat and… _walking this way_.

 

“I pick pocketed your keys,” said ghost Sherlock, in an impossibly normal voice. “It seems that John spends most of his time here anyway. This seemed the most expedient way of letting you both know I’m back.”

 

“You…” Greg struggled for words. Absolutely any words at all. “You… utter bastard.”

 

“Greg, is someone else in there?” asked John as he walked into the lounge and stopped suddenly with an intake of breath as he saw Sherlock. John just stared. John stared and Sherlock stared back and Greg thought that maybe time had stopped. Maybe they were stuck in this horrible, wonderful, moment for ever.

 

John let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it for the whole time Sherlock had been gone. “You’re not dead?” he asked using the careful and calm voice people used around explosives.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond. Then closed it, thought better of whatever he was about to say, then he opened his mouth again. “No.”

 

John tipped his head to one side. It was like he was looking _into_ Sherlock for something, but for what Greg couldn’t imagine. “It was a trick?” asked John, voice still calm. Everything was still. Everything had shrunk to this room, these two men.

 

Sherlock shook his head, but he said “Yes.”

 

“Why?” John’s voice was still calm but now there was an edge to it. Something hard and sharp.

 

“Moriarty had people. People who had orders to kill you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, if I didn’t jump. I could let that happen to any of you,” Sherlock turned his head to briefly lock eyes with Greg before turning back to John. The world expanded to include Greg and couldn’t stifle the gasp of surprise. Of course Sherlock would jump for John; it was believable that he would jump for Mrs Hudson. But Greg found it hard to believe he was placed in the same category. That he was that important beyond providing cases. It took Sherlock years to learn his name, and then it was only because of John that he did. But that look had been full of desperation, as if Sherlock could just _will_ Greg into believing it.

 

“You’re not dead,” John’s voice broke on that statement, although his posture was still military straight. Sherlock stepped forward and his hand reached out to John’s shoulder and John just crumpled, his legs went from underneath him and he fell. Sherlock caught him just in time to stop his head from hitting the floor.

 

“He fainted,” said Sherlock incredulously. He looked up at Greg and he just looked… lost. It hit Greg all of a sudden. Sherlock had been on his own all this time. He and John had each other. But Sherlock…

 

Greg knelt down next to John. “He’ll be okay, you gave him a shock.”

 

They lay John flat on his back gently, Greg checked his breathing. Sherlock stared at John’s face. Trying to catalogue any changes probably.

 

“Where were you?” asked Greg.

 

Sherlock looked up he stared at Greg’s face in the same way he’d been staring at John’s. Greg wondered if Sherlock could see his suspension, his divorce, in the lines on his forehead.

 

“I travelled,” said Sherlock. “I found Moriarty’s people, I stopped them.” His gaze skittered away from Greg’s eyes.

 

“Stopped them how?” asked the Detective Inspector. _What I am covering up now?_ thought Greg.

 

“Got them arrested. Sometimes for things they’d actually done,” said Sherlock still avoiding Greg’s eye.

 

 _Don’t ask me more_ hung unsaid in the air between them. This was the last inch, the place where John could follow but Greg couldn’t. Couldn’t go there and still be himself. So he let it go, made the conscious decision not to know. If Sherlock needed to tell he’d tell John, and John would carry it. Because John was strong enough for that, they both could trust him with that.

 

John’s eyes fluttered open. “What…” he mumbled.

 

“You fainted,” said Sherlock almost accusingly.

 

John just smiled. “Sorry, I’ll try not to do it again.” he replied. “You died.”

 

“Sorry,” said Sherlock smirking back at John. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

 

“Can you sit up?” asked Greg.

 

“Yeah probably, but I’m going to lie here for a bit,” replied John, a stupid grin plastered across his face.

 

Sherlock sighed. “Very well then,” said Sherlock lying down next to John in one big, graceful, dramatic movement. He laced his fingers over his chest and closed his eyes.

 

Greg couldn’t help but stare at them. That was it? Sherlock was back and now, what? They were just going to lie on the floor. What about everything John had been through? Everything Sherlock must have been through? It was just this simple for them, they were back together and it was all okay. Greg couldn’t work out if he was relieved, or angry, or…

 

“Do stop thinking Inspector,” said Sherlock offhandedly. “It is distracting.”

 

Greg took that to be a dismissal. He leant back to pull his feet back under him, his knees taking this opportunity to remind him that he was getting old. But before he could move to far away John grabbed his wrist.

 

“Stay,” said John, and he must have been an amazing army officer because that voice; it was less than an order but more than a request and it was utterly impossible to do anything but obey it.

 

Greg tried anyway. “I need to ring people, I have things to do…” Away, away from here. Somewhere he could work out what the hell he was supposed to be feeling.

 

John’s eyes held his. He’d never noticed before but the colour was not that far from Sherlock’s, but where Sherlock’s gaze was compelling and demanded your attention, John’s was warm and invited it.

 

Sherlock snorted. “No doubt Mycroft has figured it out by now. It’ll be taken care of.”

 

John tutted, still holding on to Greg’s wrist. It was a warm pressure against delicate skin and bone, but not too hard, easy to shake off. If that was what Greg wanted. “He wants you to stay,” said John. “I do too.”

 

Greg was still undecided, still unsure of his place. But then Sherlock opened his eyes and Greg was caught between two sets of undeniable blue eyes.

 

“Lestrade, stay,” said Sherlock softly. Greg gave in and lay down next to John. He stared at the ceiling; letting himself believe – finally – that Sherlock was really back from the dead.

 

Sherlock let them have a few moments before he said, “You need to look at the second window. And Reggie’s on-line gambling partner…”


End file.
